Move Your Blooming Corpse

by D. E. Ireland

  Higgins packed fresh tobacco into his pipe, wondering why women always complained about something. Even his exemplary mother did so on occasion. The rattling of a hansom cab and a motorcar’s piercing horn on Wimpole Street, plus the housekeeper’s firm voice, could be heard from the laboratory.

  “Do come in, Inspector Shaw,” Mrs. Pearce said. “I shall ring for Miss Doolittle right away. Mr. Higgins and Colonel Pickering are in the drawing room.”

  Higgins set his pipe on the mantel. A young woman entered the room ahead of Eliza’s cousin. Jack quickly set about making introductions to his fiancée. Higgins noted that Sybil Chase wasn’t beautiful, but her gray blue eyes, arched brows, and classic English roses-and-cream complexion gave her a striking appeal. And Higgins rather approved of her bow-shaped mouth, which now curved in a charming smile. Jack pumped the Colonel’s hand as his gaze swept over the laboratory’s stack of wax cylinders, gramophone, and bookshelves. Jack had been here so often, the room and its inhabitants were a familiar sight. Mrs. Pearce waited patiently until he remembered to hand over his trilby hat.

  “Thank you for inviting us, Professor,” Sybil said.

  “Oh, I didn’t invite you. Eliza did. Mrs. Pearce, will you tell the rude girl that her guests are here?”

  “She’s upstairs, sir. I’m certain she will be down any minute.”

  The Colonel pulled out a chair for Sybil and then sat on the sofa’s far end. Jack took the armchair closest to his fiancée.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t see you at Ascot, Miss Chase.” Higgins didn’t care at all whether she’d been to the racing event. He only wanted to hear more of her speech patterns to ascertain where she was born.

  “I didn’t feel it was proper to attend the race so soon after Miss Davison’s funeral,” she said. “But Jack told me what happened during the Gold Cup. And of course, the newspapers speak of little else but Mr. Hewitt and poor Diana Price. My friends in the suffrage movement were quite shocked someone ran onto the racetrack again.”

  “The police feared there might be a copycat,” Jack said. “But we expected it to be a woman, not a man. We haven’t even determined if Harold Hewitt is a member of any suffrage group.”

  “No one in the Women’s Freedom League ever heard of him,” Sybil said, “but I’ve yet to ask anyone in the WSPU.”

  From that brief exchange, Higgins deduced Sybil had been raised in Kingston-upon-Thames in southwest London. She might have attended some college, due to her precise enunciation, but resided now in South Kensington. Queen’s Gate, perhaps near the new petrol station built for the incoming flux of motorcars. And he noticed that she wore her badge of loyalty to the suffrage movement with a green sash tied around her waist and lilac flowers adorning her straw hat.

  Eliza entered the laboratory at that moment and rushed to greet their visitors. Higgins thought the two young women could be sisters. Both boasted dark, upswept hair, impertinent profiles, and an obvious fondness for white lace dresses.

  “I’m so happy to meet you, Sybil. Jack brags about you all the time,” Eliza gushed. “Shall we go in to brunch? Mrs. Pearce said she’s ready to serve.”

  “Allow me, Miss Chase.” Pickering held out his arm to Sybil. She accepted with a delighted smile.

  Jack escorted Eliza, leaving Higgins to trail after them like a spare tire in the boot. He frowned. Maybe he’d pinpointed the wrong end of Queen’s Gate. Perhaps Miss Chase hailed from a flat south of Cromwell Road.

  Once they were seated around the table, Eliza poured tea while the maids brought in full platters of bacon, eggs, and kippers.

  Clearly not shy, Sybil began the conversation by regaling them with the tale of how she and Jack met at the police station when she was twenty-three. “There I was, dripping wet with a group of other Women’s Freedom League members. It rained that hot August day. And the police took pleasure in dragging us through every puddle on the way to Scotland Yard. Our hems were a muddy mess. But all we did was block Prime Minister Asquith from getting into 10 Downing Street. If I’d known he was going to have us arrested, I would have hit him over the head with my picket sign.” She shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  Jack laughed with the others. “That would have gotten you in worse trouble. The police figured you’d chain yourselves together if they didn’t get you away from there.”

  “Oh, what a good idea. I’ll have to suggest a chain of protesters to Mrs. Garrud. Writing articles is getting deadly dull for us both.”

  “Do you write for the newspaper of the Women’s Social and Political Union?” Eliza asked. “I’ve read several articles about the cause. They’re not dull in the least.”

  Sybil smiled. “Thank you. The Vote is put out by the WFL, and they’re against the violence condoned by the Pankhursts. I’ve also written articles for Votes for Women. Sadly, most days fighting for the cause is like watching a slow trickle of water.”

  “Ah, but water brings life to the least expected places.” Pickering shook out his linen napkin. “How did you get involved in the organization so young?”

  While Sybil explained how she’d joined the WFL, Higgins tucked into a second helping of grilled tomatoes and fried mushrooms. Eliza split open a Bath bun and slathered on orange marmalade.

  “I met Sylvia Pankhurst during a class at the Royal College of Art. She then introduced me to her sister Christabel and the WSPU group.”

  “Were you ever force-fed in prison?” Eliza asked. “I’ve read about that.”

  “No, Jack paid my fine to release me. He explained in great detail what force-feeding was like, and I lost my nerve.” She smiled at him in gratitude. “Writing articles is mischief enough. Also he made me promise not to get arrested again.”

  “I had to promise him not to chase down murderers after what happened at the Drury Lane.” Eliza gave her cousin a stern look. “Although he forgets that the murderer was chasing me.”

  “I’m only trying to keep both of you out of trouble,” Jack protested. “Even if I’m having little success at it.”

  “Speaking of murder, is there anything new about the Diana Price investigation?” Higgins asked the detective.

  “We discovered Hewitt’s revolver was never fired. Our expert at the Yard is checking the pitchfork for fingerprints.”

  “Such a gruesome end.” Pickering sipped from his teacup.

  “According to the coroner, Miss Price was struck on the right cheek, which left a visible bruise. We believe she fell back and hit her head against the stable wall. That was a minor injury, however. Only a slight concussion. The killer used the pitchfork to make certain she was dead.”

  Eliza looked horrified. “Did you learn anything about Harold Hewitt?”

  Jack nodded. “He’s the eldest son of the late Charles Archibald Hewitt, who was a deputy lieutenant of Herefordshire and a justice of the peace. His father died two years ago. The family has an estate at Hope End, although Hewitt’s lived in both Canada and Switzerland. And he’s a forty-year-old bachelor.”

  “I knew it.” Higgins snapped his fingers in triumph. “How odd that both our given and surnames begin with the letter ‘H,’ and we’re the same age as well.”

  “He also stayed at the Kingsley Hotel in Bloomsbury the night before the race,” Jack went on.

  Sybil set down her fork. “The hotel near St. George’s church? That’s where Emily Davison’s funeral took place before the procession.”

  “Probably not a coincidence,” Eliza said. “He must have watched the funeral at some point, or even paid his respects at the church. Did you read the diary Harold Hewitt was carrying? Was anything interesting in there?”

  “Oh, quite a bit. Strange things like ‘all the pretty girls but none for me.’ Hewitt is a religious fanatic,” Jack added with a hint of exasperation. “It was torture having to read his ramblings. He hates horse racing, that came through loud and clear. He’s also a Fellow of the Zoological Society and an anti-vivisectionist.”

  “An anti what?�
�

  Sybil answered Eliza’s question. “It’s a term for people who oppose surgical experimentation on animals. As a Quaker, I also believe such scientific practices are inhumane. Did Hewitt write about his support for women’s rights? He carried our flag, after all.”

  Jack shrugged. “He mentioned attending Miss Besant’s lecture in an early entry, but I haven’t finished reading the diary yet. Remember that Hewitt is not the only suspect in the investigation. I’d like to find out exactly where Lady Saxton and Mrs. Turnbull were while Diana Price was being murdered.”

  “I suppose looking for their spouses isn’t much of an alibi,” Pickering said. “At least I’m glad you don’t have to ask Higgins for an alibi in this crime. We had quite enough of that this past spring.”

  “I can attest that it’s not pleasant being the prime suspect in a murder case,” Higgins said. “Who is on your list of suspects this time, Inspector?”

  “Everyone except you, Eliza, Uncle Alfred, and his wife.”

  “Could the ladies really be suspects in such a violent murder?” Sybil asked. “You once told me that women who kill usually choose poison. Stabbing someone with a pitchfork seems a far cry from poisoning a victim’s soup or wine.”

  “True, in most cases. But Gordon Longhurst and both ladies had a strong motive to commit murder due to the adulterous liaisons of their—”

  “Eliza, thank heaven you’re all right!”

  Freddy Eynsford Hill had pushed past Mrs. Pearce and rushed into the dining room. Higgins set down his teacup with a loud clatter. Freddy’s sister Clara, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment for interrupting their meal, stood in the doorway. But Freddy drew Eliza into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth in front of everyone.

  Irritated, Higgins threw a buttered crumpet at Freddy. The mutton-headed dolt.

  * * *

  Eliza pushed Freddy away, her face flaming as pink as Clara’s. She wanted to box his ears. Instead, she snatched up the napkin that had fallen at her feet.

  “I’m fine. Really I am, Freddy.”

  “I was so worried, darling.” He ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. Despite his ridiculous behavior, Freddy’s adoring expression melted her heart. “The papers said someone was trampled during Ascot, just like at the Derby. I thought you’d been hurt.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ll never see me running out in the middle of a horse race,” she said with a laugh. “That would be pure suicide.”

  “I also read a woman got stabbed with a pitchfork!”

  “And that would be murder,” Higgins said with a growl.

  Freddy ignored him. “I am quite relieved you survived Ascot, darling. Who knew that going to the races was so beastly dangerous? And you look beautiful as always. I missed you.”

  Eliza couldn’t help but smile up at him. “I missed you, too. But why are you both back so soon from the wedding in Brighton?”

  “I insisted we return early.” Clara walked over to the table. “Not that I wanted to go in the first place.”

  Eliza introduced Freddy and Clara to Sybil. “You both know my cousin Jack, of course. He and Miss Chase are engaged.”

  Clara, who was desperate to find a husband, seemed crestfallen at the news.

  “Congratulations.” Freddy cast a longing look at Eliza. “If only we could agree to set a date.”

  “Hush, Freddy. Not now.”

  Mrs. Pearce directed several maids to bring tableware and silver for the new arrivals now seated between Pickering and Eliza. Eliza shook Freddy off at last and poured the rest of the tea. Clara only nibbled at the full plate the maid placed before her, but Freddy ate everything with ravening speed as if he’d skipped meals for a week. They both looked a bit sunburnt from their seaside visit to Brighton.

  Although the Eynsford Hill family possessed the manners of the gentry, they lacked the money to truly play the part. Eliza noticed that Clara’s pale blue linen dress had seen its fair share of summers, while her hat ribbon was frayed. And Clara’s shell brooch, painted to resemble bluebells, looked cheap compared to Sybil’s amethyst leaf-shaped pin. She felt a wave of pity for Freddy’s eighteen-year-old sister. Eliza was fortunate that Colonel Pickering had outfitted her beautifully from the moment she arrived last year at Wimpole Street for speech lessons. And because she charged an impressive fee for giving her own lessons now, Eliza had added even more expensive items to her stylish wardrobe.

  Although Clara had a difficult time keeping up with the latest fashions on her family’s small inheritance, Freddy appeared quite the dapper gentleman. Today he looked smart in a light gray suit and silk waistcoat, even if his striped blue and white Ascot tie was a bit crooked. Eliza loved the way a lock of blond hair fell over his forehead, like in the painting she’d seen of Lord Byron.

  “Did the wedding go off without a hitch?” she asked.

  “Everything was perfect!” Clara’s eyes lit up. “The bridal gown was white tulle, lace, and silk. Her bouquet was exquisite, all orange blossoms and white roses. And she wore the most adorable French-heeled pumps. The wedding breakfast wasn’t much to speak of, though.”

  “Tell them how much you enjoyed the champagne punch.” Freddy winked at Eliza. “Clara indulged in three cups before breakfast was over, and two afterward. We were both a bit tipsy.”

  “The cups were tiny,” she said with a pout. “Mother didn’t feel at all well, since the weather turned warm and humid. It rained the whole time until the wedding itself, when it finally stopped. We didn’t mind coming home early.”

  “Only because it was so cramped staying at Cousin Edith’s.” Freddy tore another chunk off his bun. “There weren’t enough bedrooms, and I was forced to sleep on the parlor hearth.”

  “At least you had a pallet of blankets. I rolled off that rock-hard sofa half a dozen times during the night. Not that I could sleep anyway. You snore worse than a foghorn.”

  “I do not snore!”

  Eliza laughed at their customary bickering. “Enough, you two.”

  Sybil cocked her head at Freddy. “I’m curious how you and Eliza met.”

  “Oh, it was love at first sight. Professor Higgins’s mother kindly invited my family to tea this past spring. Eliza was so funny with her new small talk. I’d never met anyone like her. She told the most amusing stories, especially about some aunt who bit the bowl off a spoon when everyone thought she was dying.”

  “I remember that,” Jack said. “Uncle Alfred poured gin down her throat.”

  “We don’t need to hear that story again.” Eliza shook her head at him. “In truth, I first saw Freddy when he bumped into me in the rain at Covent Garden and knocked over my basket of violets. He rushed off without paying, too. He still doesn’t remember I was the flower girl who sold them. Of course, I looked and spoke differently then.”

  “I only recall I couldn’t find a cab that night,” Freddy added.

  Sybil turned to Eliza. “Jack said you and the Professor also met that same evening. While you were selling flowers, you heard him tell everyone where they came from by listening to them speak.”

  Eliza and Higgins both smiled. “Oh, he was performing his usual tricks, amazing us all with his phonetics genius. So much so, that I came straightaway the next morning and asked to pay for lessons. I wanted to speak like a proper lady.”

  “And I was gracious enough to teach her,” Higgins said. “Pick challenged me to pass her off as a duchess at a society event. A bet I obviously won.”

  “With grudging thanks for my efforts.” Eliza shook a finger at him. “Anyway, we now teach elocution here at Wimpole Street. The delightful Colonel Pickering keeps us company. He’s a true gentleman and a renowned scholar of Sanskrit.”

  “And you’ve become a real lady, Eliza,” he said with pride.

  “Now tell me what happened at Ascot, darling.” Freddy wiped his mouth. “What about your father’s horse? Did it win?”

  He and Clara sat enraptured while she told them about the Donegal Dancer�
��s victory and her winnings, how Tracery trampled Harold Hewitt, and the awful discovery of Miss Price in the stables. Higgins added a few details. Jack fielded questions from Colonel Pickering since he had left soon after the body was discovered.

  Freddy grabbed Eliza’s hand. “Darling! Do you realize how thrilling this is?”

  She pulled away in shock. “Murder isn’t thrilling.”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that. But with your winnings at Ascot, we now have enough money to marry and set up a flower shop.” He smiled at everyone around the table. “It’s long past time since we announced our formal engagement.”

  “For the last time, Freddy, I never agreed to marry you.”

  “But darling—”

  “No. I mean it.”

  “But you got yourself into such danger with that awful murder business in May. I only want to keep you safe.”

  “I’m perfectly safe. And don’t look so crushed. I’m simply not ready to marry. We discussed the matter before you left for Brighton. Besides, nothing happened to me at Ascot.” She looked over at Clara. “Lady Saxton was so disappointed you weren’t there. The Viscountess wants to introduce you to a few suitable gentlemen.”

  Clara gasped with delight. “Tansy said that?”

  “Yes. Rich ones, too.”

  She trembled with excitement. “Oh, oh! How wonderful to be a rich man’s wife!”

  “I know a score of rich men’s wives who would disagree with you,” Sybil said with a weary sigh. “A man with money and influence tends to be more arrogant than his less fortunate brothers. And far more disagreeable, too.”

  Eliza was pleased by her remark, since she agreed. Lord Saxton was certainly no prize.

  Clara appeared baffled by what Sybil said. “The worst fate is to remain a spinster. Especially for a woman without means. For the rest of her life, she is nothing more than a burden on her relatives. And an object of pity.” She shuddered. “I’d rather be dead.”

  “In this day and age,” Sybil said, “with opportunities to work outside the home, a spinster need not be a burden on anyone.”

  “She would still be unmarried,” Clara protested.